The Tribune

By DIANE PHILLIPS

Tyrone Wilson was nine years old when he began working with his dad, the shoemaker for the working Bahamian. He never questioned why he should follow his dad, Thaddeus, to work in the summers, or hang out helping him on Saturdays while other kids played ball. He liked it – being close to dad, the smell of the materials, the activity of the busy shop, the magic of seeing a piece of heavy black or brown leather turn into something people would wear to work or school or church.

In the beginning, the shop handled more than footwear. It was a kind of local department store that sold sewing machines and china made in Japan, the popular brown or blue pattern likely to show up in backyards for Sunday lunch in hundreds of homes. The store was called “Wilson Deluxe” back then.

Young Mr Wilson liked it so much he never really thought about doing anything else for a living.

As the years went by, while the variety of goods declined, the list of customers grew. They came for the friendly conversation, the shoes, and, most often, the repairs. A broken heel on a pair of dress shoes the owner loved and did not want to part with, a worn insole, a rundown heel on a man’s work boot. And more recently, tennis and sports gear in need of a glue or reconnecting of top to bottom.

The atmosphere is dated, but friendly: two couches from different eras, linoleum tile floors with flowered and butterfly patterns (meticulously clean despite the traffic), soft jazz playing in the background. Old family photos and memorabilia hang on the walls, a mini-museum of East Street history.

Other shoe manufacturers and shoe repair shops opened, but Mr Wilson’s Shoe Repair at the corner of Wulff Road and East Street became more than a neighbourhood fixture. It evolved into a quiet landmark.

Its original owner passed away in 2010 at the age of 83. But the son, who started at age nine, continues to open daily and the business still flows. Now, at 75, Mr Wilson is as busy as ever though he has made a few concessions to age.

“I only work until 2pm these days,” he says.

“But the sign says you are open on Saturday,” I point out.

“Yes, six days a week but I close a little earlier.”

It’s after 2pm on a weekday when we’re talking, and customers are still pouring in. He doesn’t lock the door. These are neighbours or folks who have been there before. He knows all but one of the five who arrived while I was poking around into tangible history, photographing an old heavy black rotary dial phone, piles and piles of shoes--maybe hundreds of them--some in pairs, many single. Most bear a small green paper ticket with a number on it. Someone will claim the goods at some point. If not, they will just add to a collection that mirrors the styles that came and went or came back again. There are silver slippers and bright red designer shoes, oxfords, loafers, and sandals of every style and colour.

But my attention is drawn to the machinery behind a comfortable couch, where I can only imagine hundreds have sat and chatted about life over the years.

The equipment is metal, heavy-gauge mild steel, about knee-high, two feet wide or so, mostly black with a touch of red with two sides that open up, and what appear to be equal sets of teeth on the inside ready to close and bite into whatever is placed between its jaws. It was purpose built, I learn, to do what I translated into “surgery on a pair of shoes,” opening them up like a surgeon would, fixing what was wrong, stitching them back up and giving them new life.

Mr Wilson is industrious, his hands glide over a wooden ruler as he measures a strap to re-size it, smooth movements he has probably done thousands of times before. Ask him how many shoes he has handled and he hesitates only briefly.

“Over 50,000,” he says.

The corner where the shop sits was once the family home site.

“East Street used to end right here,” he says, pointing to Wulff Road. “When Pindling pushed the road through all the way to the south, he made Englerston.” It was the perfect opportunity for a Bahamian to open a business and old man Wilson, ever on the hunt for the next great path to success, moved his little shop and created the Wilson Deluxe hardware and shoe store.

Jiffy Cleaners had opened one year earlier across East Street on the southwest corner. The familiar orange and blue of the Jiffy’s family-owned-and-run cleaners is gone. Today, there’s a Wendy’s on the corner. Heastie’s Lumber was to the south. That later became a branch of Scotiabank. Today, it bears the look and logo of Island Luck gaming.

Through it all, Mr Wilson’s Shoe Repair has survived. The man who started helping his dad mend the tired or broken shoe has built a step stone of Bahamian folklore. He is sorry to see the all-Bahamian way of life give way, to witness the end of an era when black and white mixed at over-the-hill clubs like the Silver Slipper and Cat and Fiddle or when the best treat a child could ask for was a trip to Mortimer’s Candies just down the street.

But his is a business that survived through all the social, cultural, technological changes around it because one man understood that work done well does not need applause. It just needs one more day with the ability to open the six foot high plain double metal security bars, unlock the door, and flip the sign to “Open.”